One Paragraph Movie Review: The Lion King

Three hundred and twenty-sixth film: The Lion King. For 30 years I’ve avoided watching this movie, at first because Disney animations and musicals just aren’t my thing, and then because the dropped jaws whenever I told people I hadn’t seen it were like an intoxicating drug. Now that I’ve seen it though, I have to finally admit — it’s fine. Adequately entertaining, and while it does little to improve my opinion of musicals, monarchies, or Elton John, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make the hour and a half feel like an hour and twenty-five minutes. The voices were fantastic, and the animation — for 1994 — was brilliant, but I’d be a lot more comfortable if Simba wasn’t singing a song about having no worries five minutes after his dad died, and I really hope it wasn’t just me who noticed the lady and man lions looking at each other with “we totally banged” faces every time a cub is born, but otherwise it was okay. It wasn’t part of my childhood, so I get it, you feel about The Lion King the way I feel about The Breakfast Club, but The Breakfast Club has a joke about Barry Manilow in it. Everything the light touches is alright, I guess. Two and a half prey celebrating the birth of a new predator out of five.